Beauty and the Beast
by nxgmobblepot
Summary: Baz is overwhelmed with feelings for Simon at yet another school ball, and when a chance to be with his Prince Charming comes up, he seizes the opportunity.


**This is the first thing I've written, and published, in over six months, so I'm sorry if it's a little sucky. I'll get better in time, I swear. Please enjoy, and it would be great of you could leave a review, too! Thank you.**

I wonder if Snow notices me watching him as he dances about with his precious Agatha. There'd been rumors about the pair of them breaking up. It was, much to my dismay, enough to get my hopes up. Perhaps I could finally have a chance with the bloke I've been swooning over since first year. I allowed myself to become overwhelmed with a sense of positivity. I would find a way to comfort Simon later in the private walls of our room, until finally he would lean in to kiss me with those soft lips of his.

As always, the scene was too good to be true. They were back to snogging after Political Science.

He's wearing a cliché black tux tonight—which, mind you, I will not complain about. I like the way it clings to his body, it gives me a rare form of pleasure. I don't quite know where he got the thing, because I sure as hell have never seen him in an anything other than school uniform. My money's on Wellbelove.

I, personally, have gone with a black dress shirt and crimson vest. My hair is slicked back, as always. I don't bother to socialize; this event isn't for people like me. It shouldn't be for people like Snow, either. I'm surprised he bothered to attend, it's not like that sidekick of his is here. Bunce is probably off studying in some forbidden library. The pair of them think I don't know about her sneaking into Mummers house, but I damn well do and damn well have since the very beginning.

There's something about the way he's looking at Agatha that doesn't quite seem so natural. Even from where I'm standing, on the other side of the room, I can tell that he's holding back. His eyes—blue and ever so mesmerizing—carry an uncertain gleam. And his hands, they hover before her hip. It's as if he doesn't want to touch her, to dance with her in this place, this setting. _This lifetime._

I smirk. Simon Snow, the most powerful mage ever to exist, the very bloke who's wish is our command, doesn't want to dance with his girlfriend. I suppose I could use this against him in one way or another, what, by luring Agatha into flirting with me in front of The Chosen One himself.

That's what he'd expect me to do, at least. He has it in that head of his that I'm constantly plotting. Which, I suppose, wouldn't be wrong. The difference is that he perceives me to be plotting against him, whilst the reality is that I'm plotting towards him. The only plans I'm setting are the ones leading me to him.

On the dance floor, a group of fifth years have taken to trading partners, and grabbing the hands of those looming on the outskirts. I sneer at the few who dare glance my way, but no matter, a young girl—she seems a little tipsy, if you ask me—snatches my wrist and drags me forward.

This, this catches Snow's attention. His head whips wildly to the left, and his eyes narrow at me. _You_ , I imagine him snarling, _you're plotting again, aren't you?_

And I would say something snarky back in return. I could come up with a clever response in my head, too, but I'm too distracted by the fact that he was so clearly watching me from way beyond yonder. I smirk at the thought.

I allow myself to be passed from person to person, offering up a waltz to each girl whom lands in my arms. A few of them return my gesture by biting their lips, trying for their most flirtatious gazes. I amuse them, if only for their sake.

Well, _no_.

No, it's for _my_ sake. Because for every girl Simon sees me with, the closer he gets to being my dance partner. Not even figuratively. He, too, is alternating across the floor. We're moving in, drawing each other like magnets. I can feel him and his raging magic calling me out to me. _Baz…Baz…Baz…_

One last person, and then he's mine. This girl is a brunette. She wears heavy eye makeup and excessively tall heals. She could never be my type, even if I were straight.

Gazing over her shoulder, I meet Simon's eyes. His stare is gentle, as if he's taking me in, inhaling me like a whiff of his favorite cologne. It's then that I come to terms with his beauty. It's natural, you see. I could call him out of the ordinary, but it would be a lie. In all honesty, he is ordinary. Those blue eyes of his, they aren't the color of the sky on a hot day, nor the ocean waves as they overlap each other. And while I suppose I haven't been close enough to fully study them, I'm near positive that there aren't specks of green or grey surrounding the pupils. They are average. A dull, unoriginal color.

The boringness of his features doesn't end there, either. His lips are small, his nose is big, his hair has managed to keep up with the trend—long on the top, short on the sides; though, the natural curls are a bit different than everyone else's. The bronze color is fucking hot, as well. He's far too thin, arms too long, legs too short.

Yet, I'm still astonished by him. Maybe it's the freckles that pull me in. Ever since day one, I've wanted to take a fine tipped marker and connect the dots. I like to think they connect as easily as constellations.

It could be his voice, too. It's chipper and sweet, while also low and seductive. He has some speech problem, acquired when he was young, after not being taught to speak correctly. He grew up in and out of children's homes, leaving him little to no one-on-one time with speech therapists. And while I'm constantly giving him shit about it, the truth is that I love it. I love when he's stuttering over his words, the look on his face as he glances down to his feet and bites his bottom lip. I've always wanted to wrap my arms around him and pull him close comfortingly. I would reassure him that everything will be okay. Calming breaths are key.

Instead, I rile him up.

Most of all, though, I suspect that it's his movements, gestures, that get me going. When he wakes up every morning, he lays thoughtfully in bed before rising. His arms don't raise over his head, stretching as he yawns. Rather, they slump in his lap. And at night, when he's overwhelmed with drowsiness, his steps are heavy and slow. It's in the moments before he falls asleep that he's in his purest form. I wonder then, each and every night, if he would return my embrace, if I only took the chance to hold him.

Tonight, I'm going to do just that.

The girl passes me on to Simon, and his partner pushes Mr. Chosen One into my arms. Well, towards my arms. I'm not as welcoming had I intended to be, and I sure as hell don't make a move to pull him in. I assume it's the shock that's making me like this. I never thought I'd see the day when Simon Oliver Snow was truly open to the thought of dancing with me.

He takes my dead, limp arms and guides them to his waist. "Don't know how to dance, Pitch?"

I snarl at him. "Not with a bloke; and much less, an arse like you."

Simon's hands tangle around my neck, and I swear, if he tried hard enough, he could choke me to death right then and there. This should unsettle me, but oddly enough, I'm… _comfortable._

"You don't have to be so rude," he says softly.

"I'm sorry, did my comeback offend you?" I return sarcastically. Snow rolls his eyes.

A new song queues up, and the room turns into a chaotic frenzy around us. While I should be passing Simon on to the next lucky girl, I don't. I tug him a little closer without thinking twice; or at all, for that matter.

"What are you doing?" His whisper is barely audible against all else. And maybe it's the shot I took beforehand fucking me up, but I'm damn positive he doesn't mean it. The gleam in his eye gives it away. He _wants_ me. And Crowley, do I want him right back.

"Part of dancing," I start, overlooking Simon's inquiry as if it were second nature, "Is moving along with the music. Now, do you know this song?"

It feels weird, standing still in a crowd full of movement. I wonder how many people are around us. I wonder how many of those people are staring, because damnit, _The Mage's Heir_ is holding a _Pitch_ in his arms. It wouldn't take much to turn my head and take a glance around. But I've never been this close to him, and quite frankly, I'm enjoying myself far too much to ruin the moment with something as silly as taking in the students nearby.

"Of course, who doesn't know Beauty and the Beast? There are dozens of spells coming from this single song alone." Simon is noticeably offended by my need to ask, but I pay it no mind. Not in the way I should, at least.

I betray my regrets by deepening the wound. "Look, just because you're The Chosen One, doesn't mean you should be." Before he has the chance to make a snark reply, I push my chest against his and lean in towards his ear. "Simply follow the rhythm of the song. And if you can't do that—because lord knows you have a terrible sense of direction—let me guide you."

Simon, much to my own surprise, nods his head willingly.

I give myself an additional moment to grasp a hold on to the song, the tune, the movement. Along with, the feel of him. His hands are warm at the back of my neck, smooth and soft as they clutch onto me. And mine, they're at his hips. Hesitantly, might I add. I'm afraid that if I rub off too eager he'll be scared away. I can't afford for that to happen, not after I made it this far.

 _"Tale as old time."_ I take that as my queue, and guide Simon across the floor. We aren't in the correct stance—we both knew that, clearly, as no one else in the room was tangled in the knot that we were, leading me to wonder if he really could return my feelings—but it takes us not a moment to rearrange ourselves. My arm his around his waist, my right hand interlocked with his. His extra palm rests on my shoulder.

He's shorter now that I have him close to me, a surprising turn of events. I can just barely see past his head. I take advantage of the slight bit of view, soaking it in. It is an easy escape from the tension brewing between us. As much as I'd love to make eye contact with Snow, to look him the eye and smile during this raw, eccentric moment, the air is far too heavy, and I'm afraid of losing a hold of my breath. A dagger cuts cleanly through the crowd, giving me the perfect view of Wellbelove taking off down the grand hall.

"Your princess has left you," I announce dully, just as the second line begins to ring out into the caverns of the ballroom.

"Hm?" There's something about the way he says it that forces me to have to bite my lip to fight back a turned-on smirk. Perhaps it's the obliviousness as he stares up at me, or more rightly so, my jaw line. I wonder what he thinks of me right now. It sure as hell looks as if he's let his guard down.

I'm going to take advantage of his vulnerability.

"Wellbelove. Love of your life. Your soulmate. The Louis Lane to your Clark Kent. Who the hell else, Snow?"

Simon's feet halt abruptly, catching me by surprise. He tears his hands away from me and folds his arms across his chest. I wonder what his bare chest looks like; I've only seen glimpses of his luscious body when he hasn't closed the bathroom door all the way. I savor those rare moments.

"We aren't together anymore, Agatha and I." His blue eyes are narrowed at me, an unforgivable glare, just before they dart down to the floor.

 _"Barely even friends."_

I've never been good at reading people, if I'm being quite honest. I will tilt my head and allow Simon to notice my eyes drifting across his face as a cover up, but I will not take anything in. It's like reading a book written in a foreign language. So, no, I could not tell you that his lips were tugged down in pure agony, as, for all I know, that's his game face. It's as I'm struggling to understand him that I cave in.

 _"Then somebody bends unexpectedly."_

I glance up at the stage, focus on the instruments that have been casted with dozens of spells to make them play themselves. The song is being played half a count slower than it is in the movie. I savor the melody for one last moment before turning back to him.

"I've never been in a relationship before," I confess before I can change my mind.

Simon chuckles. "Yeah? Why's that?"

I shrug. "Probably because everyone's afraid of my, you know, fangs," I tease, hinting at the rumors he'd spread about me. I regret it immediately, what, between the fearful look that sets in his eyes and the way this subject poke at me, drowning me.

It was never as easy as I made it out to be. I hated being called a vampire. Not because I was afraid of being exposed, but rather, because they were the very thing my mother hated. She died protecting Watford from vampires, and it is of the sickest irony that I became one.

Simon Snow, the almighty chosen one, he never quite understood that. It was so obviously a topic that he just couldn't grasp. When it used to really get to me, I'd amuse myself and excuse his cruel behavior for his stupidity. He certainly was thick. When he first began to suspect my inhumanity, he would ask me questions about if I were immortal, or if I could see myself in the mirror. He's always had the mind of a child.

But not the body of one.

He's built like a prince. Not a god, not an emperor or lord. A prince. Simple but beautiful, young and innocent and pure. He's thin, yet strong, and those eyes, god damnit those eyes, they will never not be beautiful to me.

I do not want a prince charming to see me as a deadly vampire.

I take my few, gentle steps forward, and stand silently next to him. We're looking out at the great lawn through a wide set of windows.

 _"Just a little change."_

"Between you and me, I'm in love with someone. And no one else could ever be a suitable replacement." With those words, a thousand weights get lifted off my shoulder.

He doesn't bother to turn to me when he asks, "Who is it?"

My heartbeat quickens a thousand paces a second. I inhale a sharp breath and truly take in this reckless scene. The singer—some sixth year with a grand voice—carries out a new line with crisp words I will myself to devour. _"Small to say the least."_ Snow's hand is a mere inch away from mine. His eyes are now wandering up and down my body. I think he's noticed that I'm clenching and unclenching my fist in agitation. He doesn't say anything, though. I would kill for him to murmur just a single syllable right now.

 _He's just a boy_ , I think to myself. _Don't let him wreck you like this._

No. He is not just a boy. He is Simon Oliver Snow and I am hopelessly in love with him. He is the greatest Mage in the history of magicks, our very hope of defeating The Insidious Humdrum. He is the reason I wake up just in time to witness his heavenly form walk out of the bathroom each morning. He is the last thing my solemn eyes fall on before slumber. This boy is not just a boy. He is my everything, and I will not stand by whilst he is debunked of his true value.

I glance over my shoulder. No one is around to see, not truly. It's the time of night when everyone is drunk off the secret booze they've snuck in, and their dancing is all hands no rhythm. No one will have to know; as long as he keeps his share of the secret.

With a mutter masked by my breath, I spell the red curtains behind us closed. We are alone, not in sound, not in presence, but in sight.

"Baz, what're you—," Simon's words fade to silence when I pull him towards me, grabbing him roughly by the collar

"You, Snow," I whisper in a hysterical tone. "It's always been you."

My fingers cup his face and I hold him there, an inch away from my face, for what seems like forever. I think I'm going to kiss him. He's so close, and I can taste his breath on my lips. It's cherry scones and milk and everything that's sweet in the world.

"Don't be cheesy, Basilton," he mumbles through a grin.

And then _he_ kisses _me._


End file.
